With Closing Eyes and Resting Head
by MirabileLectu
Summary: Life without Sherlock is empty. So John retreats into dreams and ends up in a silent city with the peace he needs. But he discovers more than he expected in the empty city, and he soon must choose between the two realities he created. Inception fusion/AU.


It's quiet. There is no harsh noise of traffic, no shrill conversations, no distractions of any sort. There is only the booming crash of distant waves against a crumbling shore. There are no people, only the long avenues stretching out endlessly into the distance. Papers rustle and blow through the empty streets, dancing in the slight breeze like the leaves of the trees that do not exist here. Every now and then there is a slight boom and the ground shakes as another piece of the cliffs falls, but that is the way of things in this place. The world may crumble down into nothingness, but there will always be more. There will always be more of this endless city out in the distance, more buildings reaching up into the cold grey sky, more avenues and boulevards to explore. And it will always be empty, except for the man walking slowly further and further into the maze.

It should be eerie. The silence at the very least should be unnerving, if not the utter emptiness of the place. But it is peace, not dread that fills John as he wanders aimlessly through the streets, peering up at the crumbling buildings and listening to his footsteps reverberate in the spaces between them. Ever since he woke up on that strange seashore with waves breaking around him, John has felt nothing but calm. It is the most natural thing in the world for him to wander here alone, because what else could there be? He has always been alone, and always will be.

However, there is a nagging sense of urgency that creeps into the blessed calm. A need for…something…invades the peace of John's mind and makes him restless as he walks from building to building. There is something missing, something that John cannot name and cannot find. What could he possibly need to find here? There is nothing here but the city, nothing but these buildings and John, and that is exactly as he likes it.

And so he wanders and allows the peace to fill him and wash away any sense of lingering frustration. He will enjoy this quiet for as long as he can, even if it means resolutely ignoring the feeling of dread that is slowly growing in the back of his mind. Even if it means ignoring the blackness that has begun to steal over the world.

* * *

><p>John sat up in bed with a gasp. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he had no idea why. He struggled to remember the dream that had begun to rapidly fade as soon as he awoke, but nothing he could recall explained the terror that gripped him. Or was it terror? As his heartbeat calmed and his breathing slowed, John realized that he could not identify the exact emotion that had filled him as he woke. It had felt like the old, familiar fear that came with his nightmares, to be sure. Those nightmares had been his constant companion these last few months, and he had become more familiar than he ever wished to be with the recurring feeling of falling and waking up with the sound of cracking bones and spilling blood in his ears. But this…this was different. This was neither the soul-shaking terror that came with his dreams of deserts nor the utter helplessness that came with the sensation of the world falling away from him. In place of the usual fear and misery, John instead felt regret. He was sorry he had woken from the dream, even though he could not explain why.<p>

Whatever the case, John knew that he would not be returning to sleep that night. Long practice had taught him the hopelessness of fighting for sleep after waking up in such a fashion and the frustration that came from trying. So instead of lying back down and trying to will himself back to sleep, John pulled himself out of his narrow bed with a groan, grabbed the cane that leaned reprovingly against his nightstand, and shuffled into the flat's tiny kitchen for a cup of tea.

John leaned against the counter and glared at the cane as he waited for the kettle to boil. There was no actual need for the damn thing, he knew. Everyone he knew had told him as much: Ella had tried to reason with him as a fellow doctor, Harry had berated him with all the elegance of a woman too far gone to notice she was doing more harm than good, hell even Lestrade had mentioned that John did not really need the cane. But none of it mattered. All it took was one reminder, one thought of the man who had made the cane unnecessary in the first place, and it felt as though John's leg was about to give out from under him. He could muddle through most days with a slight limp and a grimace, but the silent evenings in his tiny bedsit were enough to nearly cripple John with pain. And the nights like this were the worst.

John had not suffered nightmares this bad since his early days back from Afghanistan, when it felt like every time he closed his eyes he was drowning in a sea of blood and sand that threatened to wash him away. Those nights had left him silent and on edge, afraid to sleep for fear of what horrors he would see. But the nightmares had ended nearly as soon as he left the depressing little flat and moved into Baker Street. He had been given purpose again, given new life by the strange man he had called his friend, and he had been able to sleep through his nights without fear. Late nights awake had been caused by cases and camaraderie, not terror, and even the worst nights had been a joy compared to the agony of endless sleepless hours alone.

That was all over now. He was back in the same little flat, or one close enough to be its twin, and the nightmares had returned. They were the same nearly every night – John pinned to the spot, terrified and helpless, as he is forced to watch the only man who ever mattered plummet to earth over and over. Some nights John is silent as the body drops; on others he can do nothing but scream. The worst nights of all, though, are different. On those nights, John finds himself on that awful rooftop as well. On those nights he reaches out his hand to the man standing in front of him, and pushes.

On those nights, John learned what terror really was.

* * *

><p>He is back – or did he ever leave? It is so hard to tell here, and there is so little motivation to try. There is no passage of time in this city, no erosion, no entropy. It is a bubble, a moment of time caught in perfect stasis as it floats through untroubled existence. Or perhaps the passage of time has really been an illusion and this is how things were always meant to be. It is difficult to say.<p>

John wanders again, still enjoying the peace that the emptiness brings. He thinks that he would be content to wander here forever since there is certainly enough to explore and see and nothing to disturb him. Who knows, maybe he will stay here forever. What could possibly take him away? Where else is there to go but here? There is nothing for him to return to, no life for him to miss. There is a sudden twinge of pain at the thought, but John pushes it away. He will not allow pain to enter here, especially not pain that comes to disturb him for no reason. There is nothing but the emptiness and nothing else will ever exist for him.

Spurred on by the need to forget the brief pain, John walks with more determination and begins to inspect the buildings with more curiosity. The ones nearer the shore hold no fascination for him as they are mostly plain brick structures with little elegance or complexity. But the further he moves into the city the more impressive the buildings become, gradually moving from squat little things into soaring towers of metal and glass. Their individuality begins to show as well, with some standing as hulking monuments blocking out the pallid sun and others so graceful they look as though the slight breeze will topple them in an instant. And yet despite their differences they seem to form a cohesive whole that blends together as John observes it. The impossibility of it should make his head hurt, but it makes sense somehow. That is the beauty of this place.

His courage grows as he explores with more purpose now, and John finally works up the courage to approach one of the buildings. He picks one at random because he can, choosing one of the less intimidating skyscrapers that does not tower in the same way as its brothers. The height of the surrounding buildings makes John uneasy in some way he cannot name, as though their tallness heralds something terrible to come or some nameless threat from the past. This nervousness joins the sensation of missing _something _in the back of his mind, disturbing the peace once again and unsettling him deeply. The uncertainty and foreboding hang in the air like physical things, and John knows that if he remains still too long they will envelop him and destroy his peace.

He approaches the smaller building and pushes the great glass door open with the same sense of solemnity required upon entering a sacred space. It is an echoing cathedral of marble and polished chrome, and John feels as though he is intruding or breaking some unspoken rule just by standing here. As beautiful as the building is, there is not nearly enough to see to stave off the uncertainty that is building again and threatening to overwhelm him. John wanders the lobby for a few minutes more before he is driven back into the street.

Upon leaving the building John receives his first shock in the city, and it startles him to his very bones. Because outside, in the streets that are supposed to be bare of everything except the wind and the sun, there is a flash of movement around the corner of one of the buildings. It is not a piece of paper blowing in the wind – that would not have captured John's attention the same way this sudden swirl of black fabric does. This movement is new and it does not belong here. The uneasiness that has been building surges to the front of his mind, and John knows suddenly that he must at any cost discover what this new thing is. He is afraid of what he might find but not knowing is worse.

He leaps down the steps of the building and dashes after the mysterious flutter, but it is too late. Even as he rounds the corner he feels his grip on reality begin to loosen and the world begins to fade. _No! I'm not ready yet! I have to know…_

* * *

><p>"I had a new dream last night."<p>

Ella only looked at him impassively. John knew from previous sessions that she would not help him once he had begun like this, instead letting him take his own time and find the words himself. He shifted uneasily in the chair, not sure why he had brought the topic up in the first place. He certainly hadn't meant to. The discussions of his nightmares were bad enough, when he could bring himself to talk about them. Ella had reassured him that such nightmares were perfectly normal of course, but that didn't help. Articulating what he suffered only made it sound dry and clinical, as words could not possibly convey the visceral, soul-shaking terror that he actually experienced. He knew that he would not be able to properly explain his dreams of the endless city to Ella, but now that he had begun he was doomed to try.

"Well, not an entirely new dream. This was the second time it happened." Ella nodded gently and wrote down a few words, careful to angle her notepad so John could not see. The motion was not comforting. "It's…it's not like the others. It's not the same every night either." She looked up at him curiously then. "I've done different things in the dreams, but they've both been in the same place. Like, I don't know, a movie set or something." John winced as the words left his mouth. He knew this would just sound silly.

"Is this dream a nightmare like the others?" She has kept her voice to the same soothing tone she has always used with him, but John could sense worry under her calm exterior. _Not good_.

"No, it's not a nightmare exactly. It's…calm. It's rather nice actually. I just wander about this big empty city that's all buildings and no people." John struggled to find the words that would do justice to the dream. "Both times I was there, it was like I had always been there and always would be. I couldn't imagine being anywhere else." Ella wrote down a few more words, and John felt himself growing more and more uncomfortable with the whole situation. "Listen, I don't think it's that important actually. Nothing even happened." The look of concern on Ella's face eliminated all thoughts of telling her about the feelings of loss and the need to find that mysterious something that had greeted him in the dreams. No need for her to think that he was a proper nutter.

"John, it is only natural that your mind would try to find a quiet place to go after everything you've been through. Just like the nightmares you have, it's your brain trying to process all those things you don't want to think about or keep hidden." John fidgeted uncomfortably and looked down, unwilling to look his therapist in the face. His reticence to discuss his true feelings for the friend he had lost hung between them, and he knew that Ella was frustrated with his inability to express himself. It had been nearly a year now, and they had not made much progress beyond their initial few meetings when he first revealed the nightmares that plagued him. "The dreams are natural enough, but you mustn't let them worry you or concern you too much. And above all, you must not let them distract you from healing. Reality is more important than dreams, no matter how calm or pleasant they are."

* * *

><p>He is back again, and this time he knows exactly what he must do. He runs down street after street and feels as though he is going nowhere, all the while chased by urgency he cannot define. The need to know what he saw the last time he was here is eating away at him, and he is both afraid of what he will find and terrified that it is long gone. Whatever it is must be the reason that he is here as well, and even though he had not wondered until this moment, John finds now that he <em>must<em> know. He _must_ know why he has ended up in this place, and if the thing he is searching for is another person they can perhaps tell him. The urgency builds and builds, until John is nearly frantic and feels as though the breath is about to explode from his lungs.

A lifetime later John finally reaches the building where he first saw the flurry of movement. He dashes around the corner praying that he is not too late, but there is no sign of movement or life down this street either. Panic seizes him, sharp and sudden, and John knows that his chances of finding what he is looking for are small. This city stretches on for an eternity after all. But look he must and so look he shall, and with an energy born of panic and frustration and thwarted desire he runs through the endless streets looking for something that escapes him.

And then, miracle of miracles, he sees it. He sees the flutter of black fabric disappear around a corner yet again, mocking him with its elusiveness and proximity. He puts on a fresh turn of speed with energy he did not know he still possessed and rounds the corner only to stop dead in his tracks. What he has been searching for is standing not six feet away from him, and John wishes with all his being that he had never found it. Because this is impossible. Standing in this endless city in a land where time does not exist, John knows that he cannot possibly be seeing this man standing in front of him. Pain as sharp as a knife cuts through him and he can only choke out a single word before the world goes black.

John awoke with Sherlock's name on his lips and a sob in his throat.

* * *

><p>Once the sobs were under control and his breathing had returned to normal, John sat on the edge of his bed with his head cradled in his hands. He wanted nothing more than to banish the image from his brain, but try as he might John could see nothing but the outline of Sherlock standing whole and healthy in his deserted city. Somehow that picture was even more painful than the bloodstained and broken face he saw most nights. While seeing Sherlock crumpled on the pavement hurt more than words could say, there was something inherently unfair with being taunted by his living form. John had been so <em>excited<em>, so ready to find whatever he had been searching for in that wonderful place. And it had been ripped away from him in an instant. Again.

Whatever the case, John knew that he would not share this dream with anyone. He could not. This was private, even more so than the city had already been. If he had not been able to explain to Ella why the calm of the city was so important, he certainly would not be able to tell her what seeing Sherlock there had done to him. She might even try to prescribe him some form of sleep medication like before to keep it from happening again. John certainly did not trust himself with any sort of medication in the flat – having the gun there was bad enough. He had never told anyone how his thoughts would sometimes stray to the pistol sitting in his bedside table, or how on his worst nights he would imagine the cool metal of the barrel against his temple. These thoughts terrified him more than the nightmares ever did. He certainly did not need to encourage them. And so just like he had promised himself that he would never reveal his darkest desires John locked away the secret of his silent city and what he had seen there. He was already treated with pity, already handled with cotton gloves by everyone he knew, as if the slightest movement would cause him to finally shatter. It made him want to scream at the world that could not understand and could never hope to. But it was better to stay silent. Silence protected him.

* * *

><p>The pale blue eyes John thought he'd never see again stare into his own. They are inspecting him with the same focus that had been reserved for dead bodies and mysteries, a lifetime ago when the world still made sense. Nothing makes sense anymore, now that John should be the focus of such attention while still alive. For he is certainly still alive, despite what he may fear. Pain this intense cannot exist in death. It steals his breath away to have that face so close to his, and John finds yet again that he can form only one word.<p>

"Sherlock?"

Those slanted eyes crease into a small smile, and John's heart feels as though it is going to burst at the sight. This cannot be real. Sherlock _died_. He watched him die. He watched the life leave those beautiful eyes as crimson blood spilled onto the pavement, and he sees it again every time he closes his eyes. John begins to panic as he struggles against the impossibility of it all and he briefly feels as if the world is falling about him once more. But Sherlock is here, is alive and whole before John's eyes, and he is smiling at John with a joy and a tenderness that his smiles had never contained in life.

"Hello, John." His voice is just as John remembers it, and yet somehow not the same at all. It is still deep and musical like no voice has any right to be, but the vicious sarcasm and scorn are gone. Gone too is the sorrow with which Sherlock had spoken his final words, and only warmth and joy as John has never imagined until just now are left. John shakes his head, tries to bring reality back.

"But, you're dead. You died and left me alone."

The smile slides off Sherlock's face as rapidly as had appeared, leaving Sherlock looking concerned and almost nervous. This is wrong – Sherlock does not look this human, this vulnerable. And besides, he is dead. The thought will not stop spinning through John's head on a loop and he can feel the panic beginning to grow as Sherlock stays silent. _He's dead. He's dead. Why is he here? He's dead._ Sherlock finally sighs.

"Yes , I suppose I am dead to you." The statement makes little sense, but John does not care. It is proof that Sherlock is not here, that he cannot be here. Proof that even here this one truth must always stand. "Why are you here, John?"

"I don't know. I was just…wandering. I was alone, and I was missing something. But I found it. I finally found you."

Sherlock smiles again, a real smile that spreads through his whole face like the dawning of the sun. John feels strange suddenly, and after a moment he realizes that he is smiling as well. How long has it been since he last smiled? He cannot remember, but he does not care. This moment, this smile is all that matters. When Sherlock speaks again, his voice is soft.

"John, there's something I need to show you. Do you want to see?"

The words are so achingly familiar that John cannot help but nod and swallow tightly around the lump that suddenly forms in his throat.

"Oh god, yes." As if he could ever say anything else.

There are a million things left unsaid between them now, but that is not important. John finds that all the questions he has, all the things that demand answers do not matter now. All that matters is that they are together, just as it should be. The feeling of peace that settles over John as he walks slowly next to Sherlock is even more profound than the initial quiet he felt exploring the city, and he cannot possibly imagine being alone anymore. He knows exactly what he had been missing in his solo treks through the buildings, exactly why he had been so restless and unsettled as he walked aimlessly and without purpose. He is only whole when he is with Sherlock; he recognizes that now.

They walk deeper into the city. The skyline shrinks once more, the buildings grow more familiar, and John soon realizes that they are walking through the streets of London that they once ran through with wild abandon. Well known sights soon greet him in bizarre circumstances – the Lucky Cat Emporium stands next to the Roland Kerr Further Education College, and New Scotland Yard is somehow merged with the pool in which they almost lost their lives. But it the juxtapositions do not bother him. It is only natural that the most important places in the world should be so close together, and John is glad of it. They round a final corner and the breath is yet again stolen from John's lungs. They are suddenly on Baker Street as it was the day they first saw it, the day that John's life began again. The sun is shining brighter than it ever has in this city and John knows with sudden certainty that he is where he needs to be, the only place he will ever be happy again.

"Welcome home, John."

* * *

><p>Earlier that morning, John had wondered for the first time if he had finally gone insane. The thought had come as he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the pistol that had moved from the drawer to the top of the nightstand. It was a reasonable enough thought, after all. What sane man dreamt up an empty, impossible place and filled it with an imagined version of his dead friend? What sane man tortured himself with these dreams night after night and still longed for more? What sane man preferred those impossible dreams to reality?<p>

The pistol stared back at John, cool and impassive in the face of his misery. He had not touched it since he took it out of the drawer and laid it on the table two hours ago, but he could not look away. Ever since these dreams started over half a year ago, he had retreated further and further into himself and away from the world that had abandoned him. It had been nearly four months since his last visit to see Dr. Thompson, two months since she gave up trying to persuade him to return. He'd had nothing to talk about in his sessions, at least nothing that he was willing to tell her. What could he possibly tell her anyway? That he'd created a dream world where Sherlock was still alive and that they were living together in Baker Street? That he spent his days looking forward to sleep and regretted bitterly waking up every morning? No, impossible.

A bitter laugh, if it could really be termed as such, escaped John as he continued to stare at the gun. What a joke, that his life should be reduced to this. That a man who had survived so much would been left here alone, staring at a loaded gun and wondering if it would take him back home.

He should call Ella.

He didn't.

* * *

><p>Everything is just as they left it before the world fell apart. There is an experiment simmering away in the kitchen, soft morning light streams in through the windows, and the comforting smell of fresh tea mixed with unnamed chemicals fills the air. And there on the couch, stretched out like the world's largest and most elegant housecat is Sherlock Holmes with his hands tented under his chin. It's perfect. And it's wrong. This world no longer exists, but just like the impossibility of everything else that happens here John does not care. He is content, he is safe, he is home.<p>

John is sitting in his favorite armchair, the one that is so worn and so comfortable that feels like an extension of himself. He cannot quite remember how he got here, but that doesn't matter. He reads the paper without truly taking in the words, content to listen to the rustle of the pages and Sherlock's quiet breathing. Every now and then his hand brushes the warm metal of his gun on the table as he reaches for his tea. That is its proper place, after all. It is a part of him; it must be close at hand.

"Does it bother you, John?" Sherlock speaks suddenly, just as he always does. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, just as they always are. Just as they were when they stared up unseeing at an empty sky. (_Oh god, no_)Just as they always will be in this flat, the only reality that John cares to remember. There is a brief flash of sadness, soon gone. (_One more miracle_)That happens a lot, but he cannot quite place why.

"Does what bother me?" John knows the answer to his question, but he must ask.

Sherlock sighs in the way that John knows so well, the way he sighs when he cannot believe the stupidity of the world. But his heart is not in it this time. It is perfunctory, a matter of habit and nothing more. Sherlock tears his gaze from the ceiling to look over at John, and the sudden attention is not unlike coming under the glare of onrushing headlights. (_We're going to jump in front that bus_)The flash of pain returns, sharper this time. John shakes it off.

"That this cannot be real." (_I'm a fake_)This is stated as fact, as truth. But it doesn't make sense, and John can hear the small doubt in Sherlock's voice. Doubt should never be in that voice, only certainty.

"Of course it's real. It must be." (_Why are you saying this?_) John knows this. He knows it as he knows himself, as he knows that this flat is home, as he knows that Sherlock is the other half of himself. These things are true and cannot change. Besides, how could this place not be real? He can feel it, feel the calm that fills him, feel the warmth of the gun resting in his hand. Sherlock sighs again, this time with resignation.

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

* * *

><p>It had been a month since John last went into work. He felt guilty about it at first, but he certainly wouldn't have been much use anyway. There was little need for a doctor that could not remember how to speak to patients. The guilt was long gone by now, replaced only with gratitude that he no longer needed to pretend that everything was fine. Putting on a brave face, swallowing his misery, hiding himself, it had all been too much to bear. Here, in his room, he could be himself. He could even lose himself.<p>

The sleeping pills had become rather expensive of late however. He had only needed a few at first, just a few to get him to sleep faster and stay asleep longer. But several weeks of regular use meant that all too soon a few were not enough. Soon, he was downing pills every night just to force his body to sleep, just to fall into the oblivion he craved. It became a game he played with himself; how many pills will send to me sleep so that I still wake up?

The daylight hours when he could not possibly sleep any more were torture. They stretched on for an eternity, filled with nothing but loneliness and the knowledge that time spent here was time he could be spending with Sherlock. His mind wandered, desperate to fill itself with anything but emptiness, but still unable to do anything but fixate on the gun that still lay on his nightstand. He would brush the cool metal of the barrel occasionally, grounding himself with the solidness and reality of it. This was dangerous, he knew. In fact, this had long since moved far past dangerous and into the territory of insanity. But he could not stop. He could not bring himself to face the reality of a life lived alone when happiness was only a few sleeping pills away. His sanity was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

* * *

><p>It is nighttime in the flat and Sherlock is restless. He paces up and down the length of the sitting room, eyes flicking rapidly from surface to surface without pause. John does not know what is bothering Sherlock so much; nothing changes here, after all. The pacing makes John uncomfortable, and he brushes his fingertips over the gun on the table to center himself. The gun is important, he knows. The warmth of the gun is so, so important. If only he could remember why. (<em>Cool metal pressed to his temple, shaking slightly)(But that cannot be right)<em>

"I need to tell you something, John." Sherlock's voice is strange, unlike anything that John has ever heard. (_Not true)(Just do as I ask, please)(But that cannot be right)_

"What is it?"

Silence stretches out between them. Sherlock continues to pace, obviously searching for the right words and finding none. To see Sherlock in this state upsets John more than he can say, but there is nothing he can do to help. Finally Sherlock stops pacing and looks at John, full of sadness and regret.

"There was so much I wanted to say, before. Before we got here, but I never could. I was so afraid."

John does not understand. The feeling is familiar to be sure, but something is different this time.

"Can you tell me now?"

"I want to. But you're not real. None of this is real."

_Of course it's real. How can I not be real?_ John does not know how to answer, does not know how to speak to Sherlock when he is like this.

"Please, Sherlock. Just tell me. There are so many things I want to tell you too." John's voice is pleading, but he does not care.

"I never told you what you meant to me John. What you still mean to me even now that it's like this."

John still does not understand, but it doesn't matter. He can barely breathe as he listens to Sherlock, hope blossoming bright and painful in his chest. "Being away from you is hell, and I can't bear it. I need you, John. I need you more than the cases, more than anything. But you're gone and I can never see you again."

The hope crashes back down. This makes no sense – they are standing in their flat like they always have and always will.

"Sherlock, I'm right here. Can't you see me?"

Sherlock shakes his head sadly.

"I see John Watson standing in front of me, yes. But it's not you. It can't be."

John wants to scream with frustration, wants to grab Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him until he stops this madness. Instead he crosses the room and stands directly in front of Sherlock, closer than he has ever dared. His heart is pounding with fear, nearly beating out of his chest, but his hand is steady.

"I'm here, Sherlock." He lifts his hand and gently places it on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock shudders gently at the touch, but closes his eyes and leans into it all the same. When he finally opens his eyes to look at John, all the air leaves the room at the sight of irises blown wide in pale blue eyes and lips gently parted. There is no choice now, there never has been. John Watson kisses Sherlock Holmes, and all is right with the world.

There is nothing but this. Nothing but lips, and tongues, and breath heavy with frustrated desire. John is drowning in sensation, in the hands wound in his hair and the press of bodies, and he is glad of it. The world narrows to the feeling of Sherlock's lips on his, Sherlock's firm back beneath his hands, Sherlock's slight trembling as they kiss. There are tears on John's cheeks and he cannot for the life of him say whether or not they are his own.

They do not break for air, not once. To do so would shatter the moment forever and John could not bear that. He could not bear to lose this, not when he finally understands what he has been missing. The kiss deepens and it feels as though there are a thousand hands on John's skin, pushing under clothing and driving him mad. John does not know how they are suddenly on the floor and finds that he does not care – nothing matters but kissing his way down Sherlock's chest and feeling the gasps that escape from his lips. Time jumps and those lips are making John moan with a pleasure that threatens to tear him to pieces. He cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot do anything but repeat Sherlock's name as he loses himself to this. Everything fades but the sensation of hot breath and warm lips, and the last thing John knows is the sound of his own voice crying out as the world explodes behind his eyelids.

* * *

><p>"John, we're worried about you, mate."<p>

Lestrade's voice was gentle, as though John were a skittish animal that might bolt at any sudden sounds. John smiled grimly at the thought – the analogy was terribly appropriate. It had taken weeks of calls and texts for Greg to finally pull John out of his isolation and agree to meet for coffee at a corner café. Even this brief outing has proved to be a trial for John, and he sat hunched in on himself as he struggled to block out the too-loud sounds of the world. He longed for the peace of Baker Street, the silence of his city, the contentment of Sherlock. He could not possibly concentrate on anything but the ghost of Sherlock's lips on his or the whispered endearments that meant more than reality ever would.

John finally looked up at Greg and saw the concern on his friend's face, and the pity. He knew how he must look – a broken little man still mourning the loss of a fraud nearly two years later. A man incapable of moving on and letting go of the past. _If he only knew how right he was._

John smiled, and knew that it meant nothing.

"I'm fine, Greg. I'm always fine."

* * *

><p>They are lying together in Sherlock's bed, breathing into the stillness in perfect harmony. They have been like this for hours, possibly days, and John has no desire to move just yet. He is happy, happier than he can remember ever being, and perfectly content to feel Sherlock's solid weight beneath him. He knows now that he never wants to lose this feeling of wholeness, that he can never be happy again without this man by his side. To be apart is to be incomplete, unfinished.<p>

Sherlock stirs gently and John turns his head to look at him with a sleepy smile. He thinks that he will never grow tired of this Sherlock: sated and happy, with eyes full of sleep and hair mussed but somehow still beautiful. John's heart feels as though it is full to bursting with happiness.

"Tell me why we never did this before?"

Sherlock smiles gently in response and leans over to kiss John slowly and tenderly. There is no urgency in the kiss, not like before when they clung to each other as though the world would end if they parted. There is only contentment and an easy desire to be close now.

When they finally pull apart however, Sherlock's expression is changed slightly. Instead of tenderness or joy, there is only regret.

"I'm sorry."

John's heart nearly stops. The words are too familiar, too painful. He cannot breathe.

"Sorry? What could you possibly be sorry for?"

Sherlock is pulling away, and has he leaves John feels as though he is losing a piece of himself. Like one of his limbs is being torn from his body and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

"It's time for me to leave. I've become too…attached to this place. It's interfering with my work." Sherlock refuses to look at him as he says this, dressing efficiently with hands that shake only slightly.

"What work? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock does not answer and moves to the door. John jumps out of bed to follow him, desperate to keep him from leaving. He does not know what will happen if Sherlock leaves, but the thought terrifies him to his very bones. Sherlock cannot leave. He must not. The world only makes sense with Sherlock in it.

"Sherlock, just look at me please!"

They are in the sitting room now, and Sherlock stops. His coat is on again for the first time since they entered the flat and his shoulders are set. John can see that his mind is made up but he must try whatever it takes to save himself from being alone again. Alone almost killed him before, he certainly cannot endure it now. But when Sherlock turns to look at John with a face full of sadness and regret, John knows that it is over.

"You know that I don't want to go. But I have to. Please, John. Try to understand." John shakes his head, unable to accept it. This cannot happen again. Sherlock sees the refusal and smiles sadly. "Oh John, you always were too sentimental. I guess some things never do change." The smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "You have to understand. Leaving this place is the only way for me to come home."

"But this _is_ home!" John's voice breaks in a way it never should, but always has. (_Stop it. Stop this_) This moment will never end for John; he is doomed to repeat this again and again and always lose. Sherlock shakes his head with gentle determination.

"No, it's not. It never has been."

John is falling where he stands. He cannot speak, only whisper.

"You can't leave me again."

"Goodbye, John."

The door closes. The slam is terrible in its finality, and John knows with a certainty that cuts him like a knife that Sherlock will not return. Blackness creeps into the world as the flat begins to disintegrate. For the second time in his life, John Watson watches his life fall to pieces in the blink of an eye.

* * *

><p>John never returned to the dream.<p>

* * *

><p>After a week of being unable to return to Baker Street or his empty city, John finally picked up the gun and held it to his temple.<p>

Somehow, he had always known that it would come to this. He had not wanted to admit it to himself, but there had been little other choice. The day was bound to come when John would have to choose between his two realities, and this gun was the only way. The only way he could know for sure what was real and what was twisted fantasy.

The barrel was cold against his skin, colder than it had any right to be. His hand shook slightly as he held the gun, still too afraid to put his finger on the trigger. The minutes passed and John's arm began to ache under the strain of holding the gun to his head, but he did not move. He felt frozen, paralyzed in this moment of fear and pain and doubt. He could not live like this, torn between two worlds where the impossible was so much more vivid than life. There was nothing to anchor him to this reality, nothing to tell him that he was real. Nothing but this gun pressed to his head.

Suddenly, in a flash of understanding that nearly doubled him over, John understood. The metal had warmed slightly as it rested against his skin, and in an instant John remembered all the times in the dream he had caressed a gun so warm it felt like a living thing. That whole time, for all the months that he had walked and breathed and lived in that fantasy world, his brain had been trying to tell him that it was a lie. Had tried to show him with an impossibility he should have recognized. Using that gun now would not return him to the dream world he craved, it would bring only darkness. And as much as he craved oblivion, John knew that he could not. He could not face the darkness like that, not when he was afraid of what it might hold.

He lowered the gun.

* * *

><p>The months passed, and John finally began to heal. It was not a perfect process; there were nights when he would wake up from dreamless slumber with tears on his face, and days when he could not bear the crushing emptiness of it all. But slowly, the good days began to outnumber the bad. After much groveling Sarah finally agreed to let him work at the clinic again on a trial basis, provided that he did not miss a single early morning and at least attempted to look well rested. It was hard at first. He often simply could not bring himself to care about the tedious problems of others, not when he was clawing his way out of hell. But the return to normality and the lack of dreams soon took effect and John found that his thoughts strayed to his gun less and less often. One day he even caught himself laughing at a joke told by a fellow staff member, and there was no bitterness that followed. Regular hours at the clinic allowed him the chance to save up enough money to finally leave the horrid bedsit, and the morning came six months after the final dream that John realized that he was very nearly happy.<p>

It could not last, of course.

John had just returned home after a long day at the clinic, and he was exhausted. But it was a good kind of exhausted, the kind he had not felt in far too long. Yes his feet hurt, yes he was sick to death of crying babies and needy patients, and yes he wanted nothing more than a comfy chair and a cold beer, but this was the sort of tired that meant a job well done and a rest well earned. He could sleep well tonight knowing that he had served his purpose and done it proudly, and he knew that there would be no dreams to trouble him. Certainly no dreams of a man who was long dead and a world that did not exist.

John threw his coat over the back of the kitchen table chair as he entered the flat's small kitchen, but a sudden sound made him stop dead. It was not the sound of traffic outside, or a neighbor banging around, or even someone knocking on his door. It was the sound of someone standing up from his armchair.

John froze in terror, but instincts soon took over. He had survived too much to have the end come at the hands of some sodding home invader. He moved over to the counter in one swift step, grabbed the largest kitchen knife he owned, and spun around to attack.

The knife clattered to the floor.

"Hello, John."

This could not be happening. Not again. Sherlock Holmes could not be standing in front of him, whole and healthy and smiling once more. It was too cruel. He had finally moved on, finally accepted his fate to live alone and without the man he needed. He could not be back here, could not be stuck in this dream again with what he so desperately wanted within his grasp and yet so far.

"But, you're dead. You left me alone again."

The dream words echoed through the flat as they had echoed in the empty city streets, but this time Sherlock jumped back as if stung. His eyes were wide as they stared at John, uncertainty and doubt written large across his face. This was too much. It was impossible. Before Sherlock could respond, John turned and fled the kitchen. He needed to escape, needed to be anywhere but here staring at his dead best friend. He ran.

John's mind circled in on itself as he entered the bedroom with Sherlock close on his heels. He had to know, had to make sure that this was a dream. It had to be. The drawer of the nightstand was ripped open, and for the first time in six months the gun was in John's hand. He turned to look again, to check that the vision was still there, and sure enough Sherlock was standing in the doorway frozen. He stared at the gun in John's hand but did not shrink back, did not run. He simply reached out his hand as he did all those years ago.

"John, please. Don't."

John raised the gun to his head and pressed the muzzle to his temple. It was ice cold.

The world went black.

* * *

><p>When John came to, he was once again staring into the eyes that had haunted his dreams and waking hours for far too long. They were once again concentrated on him with laser focus, and John trembled slightly to be the object of such scrutiny. But there was something else in those eyes, something new. Sherlock was concerned, concerned about John in a way that he had never been before. Certainly not when he had been alive.<p>

It all came back. The fall, the dreams, the gun. John sat up as quickly as his spinning head would allow, causing Sherlock to jump back and nearly fall.

"You bastard. You utter fucking bastard." The words were thrown like knives, and Sherlock shrank back from their venom and accusation. John did not care. "How _dare _you?" At any other time John would have been ashamed to hear the break in his voice, but nothing so trivial could distract him from the rage and sorrow at war within him. He wanted to scream, to punch Sherlock in the face, to kiss him and make sure he never left again. Sherlock only shifted slightly and had the good sense to look at least a little uncomfortable.

"John, I know there's nothing I can say to apologize properly –"

"Damn right there's not. Do you have _any_ idea the hell you put me through the last three years?" Sherlock had never looked so much like a child being scolded as he did in this moment. It should have been funny. It would have been funny three years ago.

"I know it was difficult – "

John interrupted with a snort of caustic derision. The bitterness of the sound surprised even him.

"Difficult? I nearly went insane, Sherlock. I nearly killed myself, more than once." Sherlock's eyes went even wider at these words and he moved forward slightly as if to comfort John, but the movement was checked at once. "You have no idea what I went through. You have absolutely no idea what it was like to question my sanity every day, to dread every morning alone, to have absolutely fucking nothing to live for." John knew he was babbling, that he shouldn't be saying these things. But it had been so long since he had anyone to speak to, since he had any words worth saying. Sherlock's eyes had narrowed as John spoke, and John's heart nearly burst as he saw the Deduction Face for the first time in three years. He had not known how much he missed that fascinating, wonderful, infuriating face.

"John, what you said when you first saw me. Why did you say again?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said that I had left you alone _again_. Why did you question your sanity, John?"

The two questions bore no apparent relation to each other, but John's heart was racing. This was too familiar, too much like all the times they had shared before Sherlock had left him and John had died on the inside.

"I…there were times that I couldn't, well, couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't." The words came out in a rush, and John found that he couldn't stop. Not when he had found the words he had been missing for so long. "There was this, this dream I had. Where you were alive. Where we were still in Baker Street, still happy." Sherlock's eyes had gone wide again, and his mouth slid open in shock. "What, Sherlock?"

"A dream? That you had every night?" Time stopped. John could not breathe, did not want to. "A dream of a silent city, with empty streets? Is that what you dreamed about, John?"

"Yes. The city was so empty, but then I found you there. And we went to Baker Street…" Sherlock's eyes widened even further and what little color was left in his alabaster face vanished. And just like that, John knew. It made no sense, it could not be possible. But he knew. "We had the same dreams."

"It, it would seem so." John has never seen Sherlock this flustered before, not even when there had been a bomb strapped to John's chest and a life offered as sacrifice. "I thought…I thought that it was just my mind – "

"Filling in the gaps?" Time started again. "How?"

"I don't know. I missed you so terribly, I thought the dreams were a way of coping. But we must have been…reaching out to each other. Searching."

There was a smile on John's face so big it threatened to split him in two.

"You missed me?"

It was Sherlock's turn to smile, a small one but as real as any that John had ever seen.

"Of course. Every day." He hesitated slightly, then seemed to steel himself for what was to come next. "What did you think I wanted to tell you? I wanted so badly to tell you how much you meant, how much I missed you. But I thought you were just my imagination tormenting me, and I couldn't bring myself to do it."

There was no choice now. John could not see the sadness and uncertainty and flickering hope on Sherlock's face and not cross the room once more to stand in front of him. There was nothing John could do but this, nothing he had ever wanted but this. He raised his hand and placed it on Sherlock's cheek, and knew that it was right.

"Can you tell me now? I'm right here."

Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson, and all was right with the world.

They were gasping for breath by the time they parted, clinging to each other to remain standing as the world reshaped itself around them. They stood silent, three years of apologies and unspoken words held in their embrace. When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was soft and unsure.

"John, I still have a key to Baker Street if you wanted to go home. Will you come?"

John smiled.

"Oh god, yes."

* * *

><p>There will be a day, a day not far off, when they will have to talk about what they shared. They will recount the exact details of their dreams, comparing notes and feelings, in order to see if they were truly in the same place at the same times. The time for doubt and frustration will come, as well as the time for discovery and confusion. The words "dream sharing" and "Limbo" will soon become known to them, along with the secret military research programs that brought such things into being. Acceptance will come too, accompanied by slight sorrow at the loss of a private city that had become so dear. Those times will come, and many more follow.<p>

But that time is not now. Now, there is only silence, and togetherness, and peace. In this moment the sunlight streams gently through the dusty windows of 221B Baker Street and brushes the sleeping forms sprawled together on the couch. Dust motes dance in the light, moving only when hit by gentle breaths undisturbed by pain or nightmares. The smaller man shifts slightly as he lies on top of the taller. They are a nearly indistinguishable pile of limbs tangled in each other, breathing in tandem as they rest. They are together, they are whole.

The sun moves slowly across the floor and warms the barrel of a gun that sits discarded next to the couch, soon to be forgotten.


End file.
